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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026996">talking points</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessiseverything/pseuds/madnessiseverything'>madnessiseverything</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>narnia x tma [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Not-Them Sasha James Doesn't Exist, Queer Peter Pevensie, by which i mean he doesn't push the assistants away, i mean they're all gay but this one shows up, non-human Pevensies, set in a sort of alternate s2, slightly less paranoid jon, strange pevensies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:48:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026996</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessiseverything/pseuds/madnessiseverything</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“We have had an incident,” Rosie says. "That wardrobe that you had us purchase a few weeks back." </p><p>the one where the archival staff deal with some rather confusing encounters and get given cryptic hints.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>narnia x tma [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937485</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>129</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm so glad i'm finally getting around to posting this! it's been sitting in my drafts since before i posted part two of this au, but it just wouldn't allow itself to get written! hope you enjoy &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon is scanning some of Tim’s notes from one of his statement trips when Rosie walks into the archives with furrowed brows and her clipboard. Jon is immediately on guard. “Afternoon, Rosie, is everything alright?” Behind Rosie, Jon sees the door open again.</p><p>“We have had an incident,” Rosie says. Sonja from Artefact Storage holds the door open for someone. A young woman with a too-bright smile skips into the room. Jon’s eyes hurt. “That wardrobe that you had us purchase a few weeks back,” Rosie elaborates and no matter how much it makes his eyes burn, Jon stares at the young woman with a sinking stomach. Next to him, Tim lets out a muffled noise.</p><p>The woman stops next to Rosie and holds out her hand. “You must be the Archivist,” she says with a lilting voice, her emphasis making Jon work hard to suppress an open shudder. “I’m Lucy Pevensie.” </p><p>Tim starts coughing. Jon blinks. Oh. </p><p>“Jonathan Sims,” he says, shaking her hand as if on autopilot. He flinches when a small shock jolts up his arm at the contact. “We ah, we weren’t expecting you.” </p><p>Lucy Pevensie laughs, and a headache builds behind Jon’s eyes. “That’s quite the relief, don’t worry,” she answers and looks around expectantly. Rosie clears her throat. </p><p>“Ms Pevensie stepped out of the wardrobe about half an hour ago. I thought it best to bring her down here for ah, documentation.” </p><p>Lucy Pevensie waves at Tim. Jon swallows. “Right. Well, uh. If you would come this way, Ms Pevensie.” </p><p>“Do call me Lucy, Mr Sims. Ms Pevensie feels so formal.” Lucy curtsies to Rosie and Sonja and then turns to do the same to Tim, who seems to have recovered enough to shuffle the papers on his desk awkwardly. Then she does a small hop that makes Jon’s vision spin and walks past him towards his office. </p><p>Rosie shrugs at him and turns to leave. Tim gets up from his desk. “I’ll uh- I’ll let Sash and Martin know, boss.” </p><p>“Thank you.” Jon doesn’t know how to feel, beyond apprehensive. Had the woman not walked in with Rosie and Sonja, he could have written her off as someone deeply invested in larping or whatever ridiculous excuse one could have come up with. But he trusts their judgement. And he had warned the staff that this might be a possibility. </p><p>“This is a lovely office,” chirps the dizzying voice of Lucy Pevensie and Jon hastily catches up to her. Lucy is eagerly scanning every inch of his office, wandering around the chair set up for statement givers. </p><p>“Thank you. Uh, please have a seat.” </p><p>Lucy does so, folding her legs underneath her and smiling up at him. Jon wishes she would stop doing that. He averts his eyes and sits across from her, busying himself with the tape recorder. “I suppose you are willing to give a statement?” </p><p>“A statement about what?” </p><p>Jon focuses on a point just above her head. “About your disappearance in 1949.” </p><p>“Oh! I’m not sure that little thing will quite be able to capture that grand a tale.” She nods at the tape recorder. Jon grimaces. He knows this one won’t record to his laptop. </p><p>“I’m afraid this is the best we have,” he says as he clicks it on. </p><p>“Oh, I didn’t mean to belittle your equipment, I much prefer this kind anyways. I’ve not got the hang of all the new things yet. It's just- well. I don't believe anything can quite capture that much, you know.” </p><p>“Right. So, a statement?” </p><p>“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”</p><p>Jon taps his pen on his notepad. “If you prefer, I can ask you questions?” </p><p>“That would be lovely!"</p><p>Jon quickly runs through the motions of listing her name and some context for the tape. Then he clears his throat. “So you stepped out of the wardrobe in our Artefact Storage about forty minutes ago?” </p><p>“Yes. I apologise, I was not aware that it had moved location.” </p><p>“You were hoping to return to your old apartment?” </p><p>“Well, it was the door I know best, you understand.” </p><p>“I presume you are aware that you have been missing for over sixty years?” </p><p>“I am.” </p><p>Somehow, Jon is surprised at that, despite his phrasing. “Where were you all those years?” </p><p>Lucy’s face splits into another grin, and Jon looks over her head at the shelf behind her. “A wonderful world. Much nicer than old Earth.” </p><p>“I see.” Jon can’t decide whether he wants to know more, given how his headache seemed to increase at such a flippant mention of other worlds. “What were you doing there?”</p><p>“Oh, this and that, you know. Adventures, battles, quests. Aren’t you going to ask what I am?” </p><p>“I’m sorry?” </p><p>“It’s just- well I assumed you were academics in this place.” </p><p>“We are," Jon says indignantly.  </p><p>“Well, aren’t you curious? I’m not an 80-something-year-old, am I?” </p><p>“...No.” </p><p>“I’m glad you noticed! It’s quite interesting, isn’t it? I think the spare room caused it.” </p><p>“The spare room?” </p><p>“The room the wardrobe belongs in, of course. Didn’t Susan mention it in her statement?” </p><p>Jon pauses. Now they’re getting to it. He clicks his pen twice. “She did mention a room. She couldn’t remember most of it, unfortunately, so our knowledge is minimal.” </p><p>Lucy’s face dims for the first time since Jon set eyes on her. He takes the sudden relief of pain to take in her appearance finally. She is wearing a kaleidoscope of colours, her clothes an odd mix of medieval dress and 40s fashion. It looks both fascinating and like an affront to the fashion industry. Not that Jon would know. “Oh yeah. Her memory was not the best.”</p><p>“Do you remember the room? She could barely give details.” Jon doesn’t like the look on Lucy’s face at his question, the brightness returning in a new, still unpleasant way.</p><p>“Well, it has been a long time, you must understand. It was quite the room.” </p><p>“Yes?” Jon knows his frustration must be shining through, and he takes a breath. This damned room. He had been so certain that there was nothing about the room to blame for what happened to the Pevensies.</p><p>“The wardrobe was covered up, but it knew that I had finally come. And it spoke to me.” Jon taps his pen. Lucy shakes her head with a secretive smile. “You will excuse me. I won’t repeat what it said. I know it spoke to the others as well, though in quite different ways. Time passed oddly in the room. We grew up there.” </p><p>Jon blinks. “I’m sorry?” </p><p>“It’s why I think I look this way now, you see. Time has already had her fun with us. I think this may be her way of apologising.” </p><p>Jon can feel his headache pushing against the back of his eyes. “So you also don’t know what exactly happened?” Time-bubble rooms, talking wardrobes, other worlds. It's too late in the working day for this, he thinks to himself.</p><p>“I was eight years old, Mr Sims. I simply accepted that strange things were happening to us. Though I do not doubt that the wardrobe only allowed us to keep the memories it wanted us to keep.” Lucy props her chin up with her fist, putting her elbow on her thigh. “It’s why you bought it, right? For the magic?” </p><p>Jon clears his throat. “We presumed that it was connected to your sister’s statement somehow, and did not wish to risk it being misused.” He can't say he regrets the decision, his curiosity forever gnawing at his insides.</p><p>Lucy smiles, her brightness giving way to entirely human, childish wonder. Jon feels his shoulders relax, the unease of a clearly inhuman visitor lessening slightly. “Have you spoken to it?” She asks gently.</p><p>“Not as far as I am aware, no.” </p><p>“I do suggest you try to! It has been so very lonely all these years.”</p><p>Jon makes a note - <em> L Pevensie suggests talking to the wardrobe as it’s lonely, unsure what effects this might have </em> - “What have you been doing the past years?” </p><p>“Oh, having fun, opening a door here or there. I don’t spend much time in London.” </p><p>“What brings you here now?” </p><p>Lucy tilts her head, and Jon gets the strange notion that he is looking at a cat. Then Lucy unfolds her legs and tucks her hands under her thighs. Her feet swing back and forth. “Family.” </p><p>“Oh?” </p><p>“You read Susan’s statement. I’m sure you’re aware of the date?” Jon frowns. Lucy giggles and the office spins around him. “Our parents died 63 years ago yesterday.” </p><p>“Right.” Somehow, Jon can’t quite imagine Lucy Pevensie visiting a cemetery. “Paying your respects?”</p><p>“In our own way, yes. It’s our family meeting day.” </p><p>Jon doesn’t quite know what to do with that, coming dangerously close to a complete blank. “Our?” </p><p>“Oh! Yes, of course. It’s all four of us, you see. Everybody is so busy; we had to set a day where we would have time for each other.” </p><p>“I’m sorry, all four of you?” Lucy Pevensie is already a lot to take in. He doesn’t like the idea that there are more of her.</p><p>Lucy gives him an indulgent smile, as though he is slow. “Yes, Mr Sims. All four of us Pevensie children.” </p><p>“Your siblings are alive?” </p><p>“Well. As alive as I am, I suppose.” </p><p>“Ah.” Curiosity gets the better of him at last. “What do you mean by that?”</p><p>Lucy leans back and looks up at the ceiling. “It’s hard to put into words I will be honest. I’ve not had to describe it before. Do you have specific questions about it?” </p><p>“Uh, well, do you have a pulse? Do you still have to eat, what do you mean by time apologising to you, that sort of thing.” </p><p>“Well, yes. Our hearts still beat, and we can still eat, though I think we only do it out of habit. I’m known for forgetting it some days, and my body doesn’t suffer for it. And time-” Lucy takes a pause, tilting her head again. She shifts her eyes to the door and hums. “When you’ve already grown up once, I suppose Time has no need of rushing you through it the second time. I’ve not talked to her about it though, so I’m afraid I have no very academic thoughts on it all.” </p><p>“Her?”</p><p>“Why, Time, of course.” </p><p>Jon’s head pounds. He decides to change course. “So the disappearances-” </p><p>“Were our new lives taking over, yes. I do wish the boys had been less dramatic, but what can you do? It took us a while to find each other again, but we figured it out eventually.” </p><p>“Are your siblings like you?” </p><p>“If you mean slow to age, yes. They are quite different in most other aspects, however.”</p><p>Lucy still hasn’t looked away from the door. Jon is starting to grow restless. “Different how?” </p><p>The lilt in her voice drops into something new, and Jon’s heart races. He suddenly doesn’t want this woman in his office anymore. “Their worship is their own, Mr Sims. It’s not my place to say.” </p><p>“Right, ah, that’s alright. Do you have- did you wish to say anything in particular? For your statement.” </p><p>Lucy’s eyes focus back on him. “Have you visited the wardrobe at all? Or are you more involved in the human aspects?” She giggles at the last bit. </p><p>Jon shifts. “My job is to take statements and categorise those already given. My assistants conduct background investigations on statements.” </p><p>Lucy smiles, and Jon sees two neat rows of a predator’s teeth. “You really ought to talk to the wardrobe. It sounds like you would have the best stories in this place.” </p><p>Jon doesn’t know why it registers as a threat, but he is sure that he will do no such thing. “I will consider it.” </p><p>“Wonderful! I presume the three people outside are your assistants?” </p><p>Jon looks to the closed door and back at Lucy. “Yes.” </p><p>“Lovely people. I’m glad I came by! The last Archivist was so reserved; she didn’t much wish to talk.” </p><p>Jon almost shoots out of his chair. “You knew Gertrude Robinson?” There haven't been any leads whatsoever about his predecessor's death, not since Martin found her body. It's driving him up the wall.</p><p>“Well, I tried to,” Lucy says earnestly. “But she kept her distance. I didn’t have much time then. Otherwise, I would have made sure to befriend her. She seemed interesting.” </p><p>“Quite," Jon says, his heart beating in his throat. </p><p>“Did she retire?” </p><p>“I’m afraid she died.” </p><p>“Oh no, the poor dear.” Lucy’s eyes are wide and earnest, but that damned smile doesn't drop. “My condolences.” </p><p>“Thank you.” </p><p>"Was it old age?" </p><p>Jon doesn't think he should tell her. "They don't know." Martin's words - "She was <em>shot</em>!" - echo in his head. He doesn't trust Lucy Pevensie with that.</p><p>"Oh! It's recent then, how awful! You must still be getting settled, but everything looks like it's working smoothly, well done!" </p><p>"Yes, things have ah, gotten a routine." To say nothing of the worms incident.</p><p>“Well,” Lucy says with exuberance and jumps out of the chair. “This has been positively enlightening, thank you, Mr Sims. I’m afraid I must go. Family matters, you know.” </p><p>Jon desperately tries to fight against the sudden nausea her movements caused. “Of course. Thank you for talking to us.” </p><p>“I would say anytime, but I must admit I don’t much like this place. Too many eyes, you understand. Have a lovely day!” And with that, Lucy skips out the door. Jon can barely hear her exchanging words with someone outside over the ringing in his ears. </p><p>“Statement ends,” he mumbles as he drops his head onto his desk to wait until his body stops throwing a fit. His mind is whirring, but no clear thoughts crystalise. He needs fresh air. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim looks from his empty cup to his notebook and sighs. After Lucy Pevensie’s sudden appearance and her casual mention of her siblings, he had taken it upon himself to comb through all their knowledge on the Pevensie family again. Of course, they all knew that there were things out there that could not reasonably be described as human. None of them were too sure about how to proceed with the reality that the Pevensies were seemingly alive and, as Lucy Pevensie had put it, “worshipping” something or someone. But there was something that made them think this was only the start of whatever horror they would be subject to. </p><p>Lucy had been charming enough, even if looking at her had given Tim a headache from hell and made Martin look rather pale. Jon had emerged from his office, looking just like Tim felt. Sasha had suggested they keep the Pevensies in their minds going forward and nobody had disagreed. So here he is, staring at his notes and wondering what conclusions he is even looking for. There is plenty of material in Susan Pevensie’s statement to make his mind spiral into terrifying possibilities as to what the other siblings are up to these days - well, the brothers specifically. There is not much Tim can imagine when it comes to Susan Pevensie’s fate, given that she hardly could have spoken about her own deterioration before it happened. </p><p>There is movement in his peripheral. He looks up to find a young man with dark hair and a prominent scar across his chin standing next to his table, holding two cups. He nods towards the chair across from Tim. “Is this seat taken?” </p><p>Tim hastily removes his scattered notes. “Not at all, sorry, there you go.” There is a biting smell in the air, something smokey. Tim looks towards the kitchen, but none of the staff seem concerned. There are three empty tables between the counter and Tim’s table. He swallows.</p><p>The man drapes his jacket over the chair and sits down heavily. The table vibrates under Tim’s arms as the man pushes one of the cups across to him. “I took the liberty of getting you a refill.” </p><p>Tim narrows his eyes, glancing down briefly at what seems to be the same as his previous order. “Who are you?”</p><p>A soot-covered hand reaches across the table. “Edmund Pevensie. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Stoker.” </p><p>Tim stares, first at the hand, then the man. Edmund Pevensie smiles. Tim tentatively shakes his hand, remembering all too well the shock he got for doing so as Lucy Pevensie left last week. Edmund’s grip is scorching hot. He doesn’t look offended when Tim yelps and pulls his hand back. Tim’s fingers are as red as if he held them under boiling water. He presses them against the cool edge of the table for relief.</p><p>Edmund Pevensie watches him with a patient sort of look; like he has all the time in the world. Tim almost snorts at his own assessment - slow to age, Jon had said. Perhaps he really does have as much time on his hands as he wants. Neither of them says anything. All too quickly, the silence starts to feel like a test of Tim’s own patience. He doesn’t like being stared at like this. “I assume you didn’t just happen to be in the same place,” he says at last. He doesn’t pause to try and come up with pleasantries.</p><p>Edmund sighs and shakes his head. He rests his elbows on the table. “I couldn’t help but notice your recent path of investigation,” he says. His voice sounds like the smoke his presence brought. Tim doesn’t think he is at all prepared for this kind of confrontation. Edmund reaches over to tap his thumb against one line of Tim’s notes. “Particularly this aspect.” </p><p>Tim looks down. A smudge of soot underlines his notes on Jadis Charn, the woman Susan Pevensie accused of kidnapping her brother. He looks back up. Edmund’s eyes feel like embers with the way they seem to burn right through to Tim’s core. “Yes?” </p><p>“Quite the task you’ve given yourself, looking into her,” Edmund replies and leans back, taking a sip of his drink. </p><p>“You know her.” </p><p>“I did.” </p><p>“Not anymore?” </p><p>“She’s dead.” Edmund takes another drink. </p><p>Tim doesn’t quite know what else he expected. “Oh. How?” </p><p>“I killed her.” </p><p>Tim wraps his hands around the steaming cup in front of him and takes a deep breath. “Ah.” What else does one even say to that? “Why?” It feels like a dangerous question to ask, but Tim has started to accept the ever-increasing danger factor of his job.</p><p>Edmund shrugs. “Many reasons, I suppose. I can’t say her 1900 ramage was one of them.” He nods toward Tim’s notes. “Have you gone to see the lamp post? They never thought to replace it.” </p><p>Tim had, in fact, been to the lamp post. It was an old thing, of course, and it was hard to see which deterioration was due to whatever Jadis Charn did, and which ones were done by the passage of time. “It still works.” </p><p>Edmund smiles. “It does.” The way he says it makes Tim think there is more to the remark, but it doesn’t seem as though Edmund shares his sister’s chattiness. The other man sighs and straightens up. Tim immediately tenses. </p><p>“Polly Plummer,” Edmund says, reaching over to grab Tim’s biro and tugging Tim’s notebook halfway across the table. “I never met her personally, in the end.” He pushes Tim’s belongings back. “She might help you ease your mind about the 1900 events.” </p><p>“Who is she?” Tim asks as he looks down at his notepad. There is a small burn mark next to neat handwriting. </p><p>Edmund Pevensie smiles and downs the rest of his cup. “It wouldn’t do to do your job for you now, would it? Isn’t this what you do?” </p><p>Tim purses his lips. “We’re not a detective agency.” </p><p>“You had me fooled, with all the digging you and your fellows have been doing these past months.” There is an edge underneath the levity of the comment. It reminds Tim all too quickly of the fact that Edmund had been watching him for who knows how long. It makes Tim wonder if Lucy Pevensie’s visit was the coincidence she made it out to be. He really should warn the others.</p><p>“We follow up on statements,” he says carefully. “To get context for the stories, and maybe figure out what’s going on.”</p><p>“A dangerous job in this field, isn’t it?”</p><p>Tim doesn’t want to tell him. “What do you want?” </p><p>“Oh, not to worry, Mr Stoker. I’m not here to buy your silence or anything dramatic like that.” </p><p>“Then, what are you doing?” </p><p>The right corner of Edmund’s lips twitches upward, giving him a slanted smile. “Having a conversation.” </p><p>“At this moment this feels more like threatening, to be honest with you, mate.” </p><p>“Does it? I apologise. It’s been a while since I’ve had an extended conversation with someone like you.” </p><p>“Like me?” </p><p>“Human.” </p><p>Tim doesn’t like the implications of that statement. The thought that whatever horrors lurking in the wider world interact regularly makes his skin crawl more than their mere existence. He doesn’t quite know why. “Really,” he says, and it doesn’t come out as a question. It feels like he is buying himself more time, though for what he doesn’t know. </p><p>“Well, you can hardly have a chat about academic pursuits with customers desperate to rush off before one can remember their face.” </p><p>“Customers?” </p><p>“Yes. I’ve got to do something with my days, haven’t I? Now that Time has given me so many.” </p><p>Time, again. Jon mentioned Lucy Pevensie’s cryptic comments. Tim decides to try and get the conversation back to information - if there is any. “Why did you give me a name?”</p><p>“You people,” Edmund says, pointing casually at Tim with the hand resting on the table, “have a tendency to rush forward into the unknown without picking a path. I thought a small guide wouldn’t hurt.” </p><p>“You people? You mean humans?” </p><p>Edmund smiles. “The Eye, in particular, has a track record.”</p><p>“The Eye?” He should really find a better way to ask his questions, rather than merely echoing whatever bizarre thing Edmund says.</p><p>Edmund leans forward. The acrid smell of smoke makes Tim’s eyes burn. Edmund doesn’t say anything, his eyes scanning Tim without hurry. Then he lets out a small hum. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it all, not in words easily said. While knowledge is always admirable, it’s not quite my path, you see. I suggest you ask Mr Bouchard about that.” Edmund reaches back across the table and adds “The Eye” underneath his note of Polly Plummer. </p><p>Tim latches onto the sliver of information he is given. “You have a history with the Institute?”</p><p>“Oh, no, not at all, I stay quite far away usually,” Edmund says, then chuckles. “I just like to keep an eye out.” </p><p>Good lord. Jon had said that his conversation with Lucy Pevensie felt like pulling teeth. Tim thinks he understands now. “I don’t like you,” he says decisively. </p><p>“That’s alright. I’ve no urge to make friends.” Edmund leans back in his chair again. “The Institute has been quite busy these past months, and that sort of activity rarely means anything good. Your sort can hardly blame me for being curious.” </p><p>“You haven’t asked any real questions.” None that would make Tim think Edmund Pevensie was trying to do anything but intimidate him somehow, at the very least.</p><p>“May I?” </p><p>Tim purses his lips and looks down at the small notes the other man scribbled on his notepad. An equal exchange of information, he muses. He can always make something up if the questions feel too dangerous. “Sure.” </p><p>“What do you make of all of this?” </p><p>“I’m sorry?” </p><p>“The statements you research, my sister walking out of a wardrobe, our conversation. You must have some thoughts.” </p><p>Tim doesn’t know what sort of question he expected, but this isn’t it. He frowns down into his drink. “I don’t know what you mean.” </p><p>“You’re an academic, right?” </p><p>“Kind of.” </p><p>Edmund tilts his head and scans Tim again. Tim is starting to get tired of not knowing what the other man sees. “So must have some thoughts on the oddities of your current job, right?” </p><p>“The supernatural is real, is that what you want me to say? That’s no revelation.” </p><p>“It would be, for some people.”</p><p>Tim thinks of Jon and smiles. “It’s pretty hard to deny at this point, what with you guys, and the worms and everything.” </p><p>“Worms?” Edmund asks with obvious amusement.</p><p>Tim sighs and takes a drink. It’s too hot, and he hastily puts down the cup again. “We had an incident a bit ago.” </p><p>“Ah.” Edmund crosses his arms on the table. “I’m afraid you will have to get used to those.”</p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“The Magnus Institute has a hard time making itself liked. Some things just prefer to be left alone, and your poking about is bound to ruffle feathers.” </p><p>“You sure you aren’t threatening us?”</p><p>Edmund doesn’t respond right away. His eyes wander from Tim down to his notes, then throughout the shop. “You seem a decent chap, Mr Stoker. There are many things out there. I’m sure you’re aware that not all will be up for a friendly chat.” He pulls Tim’s notepad towards himself again. “I’ve got a shop up at Camden.” His eyes flick up from where he is writing. “Since Lucy’s not guaranteed to answer should you knock on the wardrobe.” </p><p>Tim blinks. “What?”</p><p>Edmund gets up. “You and your new Archivist seem determined to dig deeper. I’d much rather have a choice in which address you find me at.” He pulls on his jacket and shoves his hands into the pockets. “Have a lovely day.” </p><p>Tim stares after Edmund Pevensie until the smell of smoke disappears, and the next customer walks through the door. Only then does he look down at his notepad again. His biro has a finger-shaped dent in its side. He lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, what the fuck.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha has a headache. Every rustle of paper another library-goer makes reminds her of that fact. She shut her laptop several minutes ago, hoping that the lack of screen would help. Instead, she is looking down at her notes. </p><p>After Tim’s encounter with Edmund Pevensie, it’s impossible to deny that the Pevensie family is watching them. And while Lucy Pevensie seemed personable when she introduced herself to Sasha and Martin on the way out, Sasha knows better than to get tricked by an innocent smile - not to mention Jon’s reluctant admittance of unease around her. Edmund Pevensie’s conversation with Tim did little to calm them down. It did, however, give them new glimpses of information, so Sasha chooses to see it as a positive. She glances back over her notes. </p><p>Polly Plummer had been an underwhelming find, at first. All Sasha had found was an obituary putting her death in February 1949, and naming her a chosen aunt of several people. After a deep dive into the newspaper archives for 1900, she came across what she assumed Edmund Pevensie meant when he gave Tim the name. It was an article detailing a case of property damage in East London that Sasha had researched not a month before for Susan Pevensie’s statement. One of the witnesses mentioned was a young girl named Polly who lived next to one of the destroyed properties. </p><p>After having deciphered the old newspaper scan, her headache proved too bothersome for more staring at her screen. Now all she has left to ponder is if this information is even useful. To be honest, Sasha doesn’t know what they expected. Keeping an eye out for what the Pevensies might do has been confusing since they don’t know what to look out for or what the family wants from them. Looking into any vague lead has been the only form of agency they could retain. It all feels very dramatic.</p><p>It’s then that Sasha realises that the library has fallen into complete silence - no paper shuffling, no creaking book carts, no sound of frustrated students. She looks up. A woman with dark hair, pale skin and grey eyes stands behind the chair across from her, her hands on the backrest. She is looking at Sasha with a small, detached smile. Sasha is immediately reminded of a 40s Hollywood glamour shoot. </p><p>“Hello, Ms James,” the woman says with a smooth, gentle sort of voice and pulls out the chair. “I hope you don’t mind the company.” She says it like it’s a joke, with a twitch of her ruby-red lips. Sasha has a hunch as to who this is. </p><p>“Susan Pevensie?” </p><p>The woman inclines her head and tucks a perfectly wavy strand of hair behind her ear. Sasha can’t help but notice what looks like frostbite around her fingertips. “Pleased to meet you.” </p><p>Sasha tucks her cardigan tighter around herself. “I wish I could say the same.” </p><p>Susan’s smile grows slightly. “That’s alright. I’m aware that you’ve no reason to be pleased. It’s by design.” </p><p>“I don’t doubt that. How can I help you?” </p><p>“You looked like you were the one in need of help.” </p><p>Sasha looks down at her notes with a frown. How is she supposed to interpret that? Across from her, Susan Pevensie sits down. She folds her hands and puts them on the table. Sasha is struck by how meticulous she is about every movement; like it’s choreographed. </p><p>“If you feel like expanding on what your brother was trying to tell my colleague, feel free,” Sasha settles on saying. </p><p>Susan raises her brows. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” </p><p>Sasha digs out the notes she made of Tim’s conversation with Edmund Pevensie. She doesn’t quite know why, but she isn’t about to dismiss a potential lead. She slides the paper half-way across the table and taps the two lines with Edmund’s notes. Susan reads them with a smile. Her hands stay folded. </p><p>“Polly Plummer. I’ve never met her personally.” </p><p>“Your brother said the same.” Sasha clicks her pen. “Do you know why he would give us her name?” </p><p>“Did he not give you a reason?” </p><p>“He said it would shed light on Jadis Charn’s 1900 events.” </p><p>“And it hasn’t?” </p><p>“I wouldn’t say so.” </p><p>“I’m sorry to hear that. It does sound like something Edmund would do.”</p><p>Sasha files that information away for later, much too focused on Polly Plummer for now. “How do you know about her?” </p><p>Susan tilts her head. “It must have been during our stay in the country.”</p><p>“In the country?” </p><p>“Oh, yes. She was an old friend of the professor’s.” </p><p>“She was?” </p><p>For the first time, Susan smiles with teeth. Sasha doesn’t like it. “There were some photographs of them together. I believe Lucy asked about her one day.” She unfolds her hands and props her elbow up to settle her chin in the palm of her hand. “What did you find about 1900?” </p><p>“Just that a girl named Polly was a witness to Jadis Charn that day.” </p><p>The smile broadens. “Quite.” </p><p>“I assume you know more?” </p><p>“Oh, not much. Ms Plummer and the professor were both there that day. I believe they were partially responsible for her rampage, though I don’t know how.” </p><p>Sasha hastily scribbles on her notepad. “So they both knew Ms Charn, and then you stayed with the professor. And your brother was taken by Ms Charn.” </p><p>“He was.” </p><p>An idea occurs to Sasha. “Do you think the professor had something to do with it?” She asks. </p><p>Susan doesn’t so much as blink, her eyes directly on Sasha’s. It feels like she is looking right through her. “Jadis loathed the both of them, Edmund says. I don’t doubt that the feeling was mutual.” </p><p>“So you don’t think so? Didn’t you dream of her showing up at the professor’s house?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“In your statement, you mention dreaming of Jadis Charn. You wondered if the dreams were of the events in the room.”</p><p>“Oh. I’d forgotten.” Susan’s smile is back to the small, detached one. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Well, Edmund did meet her then, I suppose. But you can rest assured, the professor knew nothing of it until much later.” </p><p>“What does that mean?” </p><p>“He didn’t know of our situation until Peter looked for him. He was wholly human. His only brush with anything more was Jadis, and she was much too busy to make his life hell.” </p><p>Sasha thinks about all that she knows of Peter Pevensie from the statement. She thinks about the bloodied shirt that was found and how close it was to where Digory Kirke lived near the end of his life. They hadn’t made that connection when they first looked into the statement. Before she can formulate the question forming in her mind, Susan laughs softly. </p><p>“You can rest easy, Ms James. My brother was not responsible for the professor’s death. Well, I suppose he might’ve given him a good fright, and you know how fragile humans are, but he did not do whatever gruesome thing you’ve conjured.” </p><p>Sasha decides she doesn’t want to know any details. “So your brother, Edmund, just wanted us to connect Mr Kirke to the 1900 events?” </p><p>Susan taps her fingers against her cheek. Her eyes leave Sasha for the first time since she sat down. “Possibly. Or he simply wanted to give you something to do.” Her voice turns fond. “He has a soft spot, after what Peter went through, I suppose.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>A new smile, the first one filled with hints of genuine warmth, spreads on Susan’s face. “Do you have siblings, Ms James?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>Susan folds her arms on the table. “When we found each other again, our relationships were different than we had left them. Peter and Edmund especially finally found peace between them. Edmund has since grown quite protective. He took it to heart when he found out about Peter’s claiming.” </p><p>“Claiming?” </p><p>Susan reaches for the paper with Tim’s notes. She taps the line where “The Eye” is written down. Sasha frowns. Tim mentioned that he was going to ask Elias about it. He has yet to find the time, with Elias’ busy schedule and their statement research. </p><p>Susan continues with a shake of her head. “It put him through quite a lot before he settled into the Slaughter.” Sasha adds “slaughter” underneath the note, already resolving to text Tim as soon as she can. Something about these words feels important. </p><p>“What does that have to do with giving us something to do?” </p><p>“Seeking knowledge can become dangerous,” Susan says. “Especially when you don’t find what you want.” </p><p>“So what, you just wanted to keep us busy?” Or lead them down a wrong path, Sasha thinks privately. It’s starting to feel like they are getting closer to something tangible in this wild goose chase of information.</p><p>“I don’t know, Ms James. My brother keeps his own counsel when he wishes to.” By the twist of Susan’s lips, Sasha is sure that there is more to it. </p><p>“And I guess you have no intentions of telling us why you are suddenly showing up all over the place?” </p><p>“I would assure you that we have no mal-intent, but you don’t strike me as someone who would believe that. An admirable trait, in this kind of job.” </p><p>Sasha is starting to lose her patience for cryptic remarks. “Explaining what you are up to would go a long way in reassuring us.” </p><p>Susan laughs gently, her eyes falling to Sasha’s notes before flicking back up. “I’m afraid it’s rather hard to explain. Life works quite differently for us, you see.” </p><p>“We’ve noticed.” </p><p>“Your research into our own history merely piqued our interest. A new perspective can rarely hurt.” </p><p>Sasha can’t help but feel like there are many more productive paths than whatever the Pevensies have been doing. “You could have asked.” </p><p>“My siblings have always preferred to play games, and they are ever so persuasive.” </p><p>The dismissive tone makes Sasha angry. “So we’re what? Toys?” </p><p>Susan’s eyes grow dull, and the smile slips off her face. The room feels even colder, and Sasha pulls her cardigan over her fingers. Susan’s voice is empty of emotion when she answers. “You are naive. There are rules to this world, Ms James, rules that I cannot explain. It’s clear that my brother gave you somewhere to start, and I suggest that you focus your energy on the Powers rather than whatever nefarious plans you think my family has.” </p><p>Sasha swallows. She fights against the sudden wish to stop talking altogether. Her voice sticks in her throat, so she only gets out one word. “Powers?” </p><p>Susan points to the notes. “Mr Bouchard ought to make time for his employees.” </p><p>“Right.” Sasha looks around the library to find them utterly alone. She is torn between the itch of curiosity and the urge to get as far away as she can from the cold spreading out from Susan Pevensie. </p><p>The other woman seems to decide for her because she leans back with a sigh. Sasha feels some warmth return to her fingers. “I apologise. This place,” she says with a rueful smile. She gestures around at the library. “I really don’t know how you can stand it.” </p><p>“Stand what?” </p><p>“The eyes.” </p><p>The hairs on the back of Sasha’s neck stand up. She shifts uneasily. Too many people have remarked on feeling watched in the Institute. She looks back down to the notes about the “powers”. Screw Elias’ schedule, she thinks to herself. He’s got some serious explaining to do.</p><p>“Are there any questions you wish to ask me, Ms James?” Susan asks pleasantly, adjusting her dress with careful hands. </p><p>Sasha gapes before grasping for anything to ask. “What was your disappearance like?” </p><p>Susan gives her an approving nod. “It was slow. When Lucy left, life just ground to a halt. I was alone. My parents felt like strangers with how distant we had become. I kept to myself and barely went to work. Eventually, the heater broke, but I never got it replaced. I had no friends who could complain should they come over, and it didn’t bother me. The cold just- seeped in. One day, I was offered a life beyond my withering away inside a London flat. It wasn’t a difficult choice to make. I barely had a life left, what did it matter if I gave it up?” </p><p>Sasha’s gaze is once again drawn to the darkened tips of Susan’s fingers. “Do you ever regret it? Giving up your humanity?” </p><p>“I don’t,” Susan says with a shake of her head. She fixes Sasha with a look that makes Sasha feel both understood and entirely overlooked at the same time. “Would you have chosen differently?” </p><p>Sasha doesn’t know. She rubs the fabric of her cardigan between her fingers. She thinks of Michael and wonders what sort of choice he had been given - or if he had always been whatever he is. </p><p>Susan makes a sympathetic noise. She pushes Sasha’s notes back across the table and begins to get up. “One day, you might have to make a similar choice, Ms James.” She smooths down her dress. Somehow, she looks more real than she did before. Sasha can’t decide if it’s because of their conversation or whatever strange powers she has. “It can never hurt to know how much you value your humanity.” Sasha has no response to that, but Susan doesn’t seem to mind. She inclines her head. “Have a nice day.” </p><p>Sasha’s voice is faint when she throws out a belated goodbye. Susan Pevensie disappears around the corner of the shelves. The sounds of the other library-goers return as if it had never left, and Sasha gets up. She shuffles all her belongings into her bag with haste. She has to find the others.</p><p>It takes her several minutes to notice that her headache is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry for the small delay, everyone! i got stuck and it took a couple tries to get back moving :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Martin, balancing the paper waste in his arms, fumbles with the back door latch. A few paces behind him, Tim is complaining to Sasha about Elias being once again unavailable. The past day has been a flurry of activity that’s making Martin anxious beyond belief. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim and Sasha, fresh off their encounters with a Pevensie, have a small line of notes they want to question Elias about. Sasha has started calling them “powers”. Martin is sure that whatever it is, they don’t want to know. But of course, his two colleagues and Jon won’t just drop the cryptic remarks made by the Pevensies. And Martin can’t deny that he is curious himself. But this time, it feels like they are digging into something different. He doesn’t know why it makes him so anxious - more anxious than usual. Perhaps it’s just because any extended conversation with Elias brings extensive nightmares about being discovered and fired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The back door finally gives way, and he pushes the door stopper to keep it open. Scanning the back alley for any stray animals that might see this as their chance to sneak inside, he rushes over to the bins. It’s been a while since the dog incident, but Martin refuses to repeat it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He groans when he hears the door fall shut again. He must’ve kicked the stopper too far. He turns around and flinches back against the bins with a startled yelp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A man that most certainly was not there when Martin opened the door is leaning against the Institute’s wall with one shoulder. His hands are raised in a gesture of peace. “It’s alright,” he says in a low, gentle voice. “I’m not here to hurt anybody.” Something in his face makes that hard to believe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin’s eyes freeze on a few dark stains down the man’s shirt. His hand flies to where he keeps his pocket knife. “I’ve got a knife!” He announces, wrapping his fingers around it. He thanks the heavens that he didn’t stop carrying it around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart leaps into his throat when the man simply smiles at the exclamation. “I know,” he says and pushes away from the wall. It’s then that Martin notices something dangling from his hip. His breath stutters. It’s a sword.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Martin’s voice is faint when he manages to push the question out through his screaming thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of an immediate answer, the man folds his hands behind his back and lets his eyes wander. Martin takes the time to get a better grip on his knife. He doesn’t think it will do much good, but he feels safer with it settled properly in his hand. He takes in the man’s appearance. Aside from the sword belt, his clothing looks nondescript: a loose, rough-looking button-up, half-tucked into loose pants that remind Martin of the WW2 uniforms displayed in museums. A thought settles in his head, but the man clears his throat before Martin can try to speak again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Peter Pevensie,” he says with an outstretched hand. “I assume you are Martin Blackwood.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin swallows. Oh, dear. “Yes.” He hesitates in shaking Peter Pevensie’s hand. It’s grimy, and Martin has a thought or two as to why. Of course, he gets the sibling that is covered in blood. Not to mention the sword. Neither Tim nor Sasha said anything about weapons in their encounters. Peter is smiling patiently and doesn’t pull his hand back. Breathing out, Martin shakes it hastily. There is no shock, unlike when he shook hands with Lucy Pevensie. He still can’t quite resist the need to wipe his hand when he pulls back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter looks back at the Institute with an almost wistful look on his face. Martin frowns and repeats his question. “What do you want?” He wants to get through this as quickly as possible, whatever odd remarks a Pevensie has for them this time. He has no interest in spending any extended amount of time in the presence of this person- or creature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter shrugs with an easy smile. “I suppose I was dropping by out of nostalgia.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Martin starts frantically flipping through his memories of the Pevensie case. “What do you mean?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter leans back against the wall again, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “The last time I was here was around 1944. It’s nice to see not much has changed, unlike so many other things these days. Though I hope it’s more secure than it was then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin gapes. “You were at the Institute? Did you give a statement?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not quite,” Peter says with a laugh. “I broke in.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was desperate for information then. And what better place to look for it, than the Eye’s very own shrine? Not that I knew that then, I just followed the impulse.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin glances back at the door. Eye’s shrine? “What were you looking for?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter looks at him. Martin becomes suddenly aware of the sound of his pulse drumming in his ears. There is something in the other man’s eyes that is keeping him on guard. Martin can’t quite explain what it is, but his skin crawls all the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was trying to find Edmund,” Peter says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Eye had precious little that helped. No offence.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin frowns. “Why would I be offended?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter tilts his head, looks closer at Martin. Martin shifts uncomfortably. “Huh. You don’t know much about this place, do you, Mr Blackwood?” It’s said with amusement, and Peter’s smile is broad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a research facility specialising in the esoteric and paranormal,” Martin rattles off, more out of his depth than usual. What is he meant to know?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter nods. “Full of people who value information above all else,” he says, almost absentmindedly. Martin narrows his eyes. He’s starting to feel less afraid and more talked down to. He straightens his shoulders and huffs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ve dropped by out of nostalgia. Is there a reason you’re keeping me trapped back here?” He is proud of how steady his voice sounds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not keeping you trapped. You are free to leave,” Peter says with a gesture towards the door next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great.” Martin really wishes Peter would step further away from the door. He doesn’t feel petrified anymore, but he doesn’t like the thought of getting any closer to someone whose only known trait seems to be violence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter chuckles. “Are you not more curious? This is part of your job, after all.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin clenches his jaw. He can only imagine the annoyance of the others if they learn he didn’t use this as a way to gather more information. “Your siblings were not very forthcoming,” he says carefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you blame them? It will doubtlessly be used against us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what would be the point of me asking questions you won’t answer?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have I not been answering thus far? Not to mention, you wouldn’t be working here otherwise.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin looks at Peter and tries to think of questions that won't get dodged immediately. “Why do you have a sword?” It seems the safest, most surface-level one to start with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter’s face lights up, and he looks down at the sword with a gentle smile. Martin is taken aback by the change in demeanour and wonders what he just stumbled onto. Still, the excitement on Peter’s face does little in calming him down. On the contrary, Martin feels the need to back away further. “It was a gift,” Peter says softly, running his fingers down the handle. “A token. When he thought I had learned how to wield it well enough, he gave it to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin blinks. “He?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter looks back up with a grin. “Yes. I taught him how to shoot a gun in return.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Martin doesn’t know what on earth the other man is talking about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“War is bound to change a courtship,” Peter says with a shrug. The way he says it makes Martin think he is quoting someone. “And we could hardly go for a romantic dinner back then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t know what to do with this new knowledge. The thought that beings like the Pevensies could fall in love - and looking at Peter’s expression, he has no doubts about that part - clashes with the complete lack of humanity he attributed to them. He guesses Jane Prentiss might have influenced his train of thought there, but didn’t Susan Pevensie talk about giving up humanity? Did Sasha ask what exactly that meant?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter is back to looking at Martin with scrutinising eyes. “How long have you been working here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Martin’s anxiety returns, now with an entirely new reason. Somehow, he feels like Peter is standing too close to him, despite neither of them having moved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No need to tell me if you don’t wish,” Peter says with a wave of his hand. “I just figured I’d ask. You look like you know your way about the place. Though not well enough, some might say.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Martin asks with mild indignation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you feel watched, Mr Blackwood?” There is something new in Peter’s tone, something that makes Martin tighten his grip around his knife. “Scrutinised? Surveilled?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” His voice comes out more panicked than he hoped, but his entire body suddenly feels wound too tightly. He feels like he is bracing for a fight; as if the other man might decide to lurch forward any second. Martin hates it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It seems that you are working for someone without knowing the full extent of said work.” Peter shakes his head. “And I’m starting to think you might be a victim rather than a perpetrator.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A-A victim?” Martin is starting to feel like his heart is trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. His chest aches and he wants to reach up, but his hand refuses to let go of the knife.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you feeling alright? You look a little overwhelmed.” His lips twitching, Peter’s eyes gleam with something that makes Martin’s fear only worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you on about?! Tell me!” He curses himself for sounding so desperate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, perhaps a mix. Mr Blackwood, this Institute does something to people, and I’m starting to see why they chose you.” A warm hand lands on Martin’s shoulder without warning, and he flinches back. Before he has time to register his actions, the knife is out of his pocket and flipped open. The tip of the blade stops short of Peter’s chest. Peter doesn’t ease his grip, barely even acknowledges the knife’s existence. “Your fears are being preyed upon, not unlike it preyed on my desperation many years ago. I suggest you confront Mr Bouchard about whatever it is that you fear will be discovered. Otherwise, his hold on you will only tighten.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What-” Martin grows angry, heat burning away anything else. The knife shakes in his hand. “Why do you all say we have to talk to him?! Why can’t you just tell us yourselves?!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter sighs. “Because we don’t know what he is up to. And while my brush with the Beholding is not insignificant, we don’t have true knowledge. All we know is that you and your colleagues are messing with things you do not understand.” His hand tightens painfully on Martin’s shoulder. Martin thinks he can hear his bones groan under the pressure. “Mr Bouchard is your best chance. But if he decides to refuse, I believe my brother gave an address to your colleague.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter stands up straighter and Martin suddenly feels much too small - weren’t they the same height a moment ago? Martin can’t help feeling like he is staring down the barrel of a gun. “We cannot promise you the concise answers that Mr Bouchard ought to give. But, if it comes to it-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me!” Martin flinches at the sound of Sasha’s voice but doesn’t dare look away. Peter takes a step back from Martin, his hands raised. Martin feels the tension bleed out of him all at once. The knife falls to the ground with a clatter. He stumbles towards his colleagues, who are standing in the open door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No harm done,” Peter says with a smile. Bending down, he picks up Martin’s pocket knife. He holds it out, but Martin can’t get himself to raise his hand to take it. Instead, Sasha grabs it with a suspicious glare. Peter Pevensie salutes them and walks away, humming loudly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the hell was that?” Tim asks, looking at Martin. It’s only then that Martin realises he is shaking. It’s a wonder his legs are still keeping him upright, he thinks distantly. Sasha bundles them through the door, and Martin sinks against the inside wall with a shaky breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright, Martin?” Sasha asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. “Peter Pevensie,” he finally manages to say. Understanding dawns on Tim and Sasha’s faces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He didn’t do anything to you, did he?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No- No, I’m alright. I don’t know why-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit is that blood?!” Tim cuts him off, pulling Martin closer to him. Martin looks down at himself with a frown. Tim tugs at the shoulder of his jumper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is,” Sasha says in response, also tugging at Martin’s jumper to get a better look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Martin brings out, remembering Peter’s hand on his shoulder. “He- his hands were kinda- well, bloody.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking hell.” Tim grimaces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sasha looks at them grimly. “We have to talk to Jon. And then, Elias. His phone calls can wait.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>happy MAG200! what a wild, wild ride it's been. while i'm not caught up, i still am feeling the emotions. so i managed to kick myself into gear to finally, finally post the long-awaited fifth chapter. i'm sorry that this isn't the confrontation just yet, this is simply how things turned out. i didn't want you guys to wait even more months, so i've decided to put the confrontation and its consequences into its own fic, when i manage to get my dialogue gears oiled. i recommend subscribing to the series itself instead of this fic in order to get that update when it comes :D i hope you have a wonderful tma day and enjoy this wee update. oh and SPOILERS for season 4, in case you are not caught up. though i suppose the tag gives it away ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonah is furious, to put it plainly.</p><p>He had planned it all. He had planned for subtlety, for a slow, dreadful realisation to creep in. He had expected to cause more confusion, more paranoia, more hostility between his employees. He had intended to have more control over the situation, rather than whatever this disaster is spiralling into now. He knows the archival staff are too close to finding more truths about the Dread Powers than he can allow this early on in the game, too close to messing with his plans. Too damn close for comfort.</p><p>All because of a wardrobe and its horrid, entitled little immortals who don’t know what they’re messing with. Avatars that refuse to play by the right and proper rules; meddlesome creatures without an ounce of respect for how things ought to run in this world.</p><p>How dare they enter his game, his plans like this?</p><p>There is nobody to blame for this mess but himself, he thinks with a frown. Then again, he couldn’t have known what they would do—a fact that will bother him until the end of time. It feels too much like ignorance, like an oversight. He hates it.</p><p>Jonah remembers the half-feral teenage boy that broke into the Institute some decades ago, back when he was just becoming Richard Mendelson. He specifically remembers the mess left behind when the boy couldn’t find what his underdeveloped, Slaughter-riddled mind had been looking for. The receptionist’s office had been turned on its head, and files had been scattered about the corridors. The cleaning staff, injured and shaken, had resigned immediately after the incident. It had been a nuisance, sure, but nothing that couldn’t be brushed aside as a drunken escapade by a determined idiot. Nothing had been stolen, so Jonah hadn’t bothered with it much further.</p><p>He refuses to call it a misjudgement, even now that that very same boy is standing in an alleyway behind his Institute and staining ever-fearful Martin Blackwood’s jumper with old blood.</p><p>Peter Pevensie had left London shortly after the break-in, off into the world and far away from the Institute and Jonah’s plans. He hadn’t been a threat. Nor had any of his siblings. Edmund Pevensie had been lured in and eaten up by the Desolation’s very own Jadis Charn, a woman entirely uninterested in any plans apart from her own. That he managed to kill her was only a distant bit of knowledge, nothing of import. Susan Pevensie had brought in an interesting statement and had been a wonderfully terrified young woman, but that had been it. Sure, Jonah had been aware that all four Pevensies chose the path of an avatar, but he—foolishly— had assumed that with Susan Pevensie’s claiming, none of them would ever set another foot in his Institute. He hadn’t even spared a thought to the possibility.</p><p>He does admit that allowing the purchase of the wardrobe might have been an act born of frustration. The damned table didn’t prove fruitful, so inviting Es Mentiras in—while seemingly ill-advised—was an attempt to balance out his plans. He should have figured the Spiral would find a way to twist his intentions out of order. It never did well with being predicted.</p><p>He had been prepared for Lucy Pevensie’s appearance, had counted on it even. He had hoped to disturb the ever-fickle spirit of the Spiral by moving the artefact, to perhaps enrage her, get her close to Jon and ensure another Entity mark. He hadn’t expected her to be so delighted and unbothered by the turn of events, nor for her to bring her siblings into it. He hadn’t expected them to be so inquisitive as that they would start digging into his work rather than take offence at the archives like all other avatars tend to do. Nothing had gone as planned.</p><p>The Pevensies, much like the Spiral, proved themselves unwilling to be predicted. Not to mention the lack of division between them. With each being a servant of a different Power, their apparent eagerness to work together, to stand on equal grounds angers Jonah most of all. Especially with the Lonely mixed up in it, it feels like a deliberate disregard of their allegiances and the rules of servitude. And still, they have prevailed in their old bodies, without age catching up nor humanity ruining it all. He doesn’t know how they manage it without being consumed. It feels reckless, naive, and defiant.</p><p>He wants to know how they do it. He wants to know how to do it too.</p><p>Taking that into consideration, he supposes this might swing back around in his favour. After all, it provides the opportunity to advance his timeline significantly—should all four siblings leave enough of a mark on the Archivist stewing away in his office downstairs. It shouldn’t be too hard. If only he could get a solid grip on the family’s motivations.</p><p>Jonah leans back in his chair with a sigh. He doesn’t like how quickly the Pevensies have attached themselves to his employees, nor how interested they are. Sure, other avatars have had their claws in his employees before, and he hasn’t minded what happens to archival assistants in the past, what with Gertrude Robinson’s turnover rate. But he isn’t okay with whatever this is. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the cohesive, unified approach that these Pevensie siblings seem to be attempting, nor what their insidious words are setting into motion. Their very existence feels like an antithesis to everything Jonah knows of the Powers.</p><p>Perhaps he should allow their interference, just for a little while. Jon’s curiosity and drive are proving to be precisely what he needs. Let the archival staff talk to them, let the Pevensies speak of their motivations. There is knowledge there. There is knowledge in how they interact with their patrons, in their strange immortality that works so unlike what Jonah has managed, unlike anything he has found records of. He can’t let it disappear.</p><p>Jonah gets up and looks out of his office’s window. Down in the street, Peter Pevensie strolls away from the Institute with his hands shoved into his pockets and his sword swinging at his side. With a quick look, Jonah confirms that Sasha, Tim and Martin are on their way to talk with Jon. No doubt they will be knocking on his door shortly, demanding answers that they are not prepared to hear.</p><p>Jonah Magnus waits.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>well, well, well. here we are. thank you for sticking with me through the wait, it's been and continues to be a rough few months on my end. life is kicking my ass, let me tell you. either way, i adore this au so much and still have other parts to upload, outside of the ongoing plot :D so be on the lookout for those as well in the future. cheers, and please let me know your thoughts! this series is one i'm very proud of so all feedback makes me incredibly happy &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you can find me on my <a href="https://bloodybigwardrobe.tumblr.com/">narnia tumblr</a>, my <a href="https://extinctioniscoming.tumblr.com/">tma tumblr</a> or on <a href="https://twitter.com/notanycritter">twitter</a>.</p><p>(edit: if you're anxious to read the last chapter and are wondering why i haven't updated: i absolutely am still working on it! the local horrible boss is just very hard to write, turns out, and uni is also ramping up. so things are moving considerably slower than i planned. so sorry for the delay, but rest assured there is no abandoning happening!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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